Like the sunshine

It was Christmas eve. Delhi was at her best that day. I was with a friend on my ‘see Delhi’ trips. I was outside Delhi Haat. There were groups of carol singers singing in the biting, delicious Delhi cold. They were distributing red Santa caps and bells.

And that was when I saw him. He came to me with an impish smile and confidence which only street kids seem to possess. He had on one of the Santa red caps which were being distributed by the carol singers. He had on a torn pant and a loose shirt, two sizes too big. He sees that I am not wearing any muffler to cover my ears and tells me his red cap is covering his ears. He tells me its keeping the cold out. Then he casually looks at my bare head and says: “Mere paas do hai.”. I stare at him and did a double take. Did this four or five year old boy just subtly point out my need are and then make a sale without me asking for it. Then he removes his own cap, hands it out and says if I want I can keep this one. I couldn’t help but smile. There was something about him. His confidence in himself, his sharp mind, his wisdom far surpassing his age.

He was from UP. His mom is in a village there. He stays in Delhi on his own. He works in Delhi Haat area. He stays with few more guys of his age. He travels to his work place by bus. He makes living by shining shoes.

I just kept making small talk with him. I was waiting for my cab driver who seem to have gotten lost. I was discussing with my friend that the cab driver seems to have taken a wrong turn. And the kid pipes in saying : ‘No Memsahib. Woh driver wahaan is taraf honge’ and goes and gets my cab. All three of us had seen the cab pass, but it was only the kid which had discerned that it was the same cab we were waiting.
He just kept walking along with us. Bravely, as if the cold winter didn’t touch him. Then I tell him: come, lets go and buy you a warm jacket. The boy smiles and then says: Memsaahib, jacket nahin, mujhe jeans pant pasand hai. Points to the row of shops across the road and says wahaan pe jeans pant milta hai. And that’s the way I left him that day, with a jeans pant in hand. Waving bye as we passed him.

He remained in my thoughts for days after that. I met someone who could have become anything with a discerning mind like that. And all I did was leave him on the sidelines of the street. My eyes search for him every time I pass Delhi Haat or I see a group of street boys. My memory of his face is dimming day by day and I fear that one day he will come in front of me and I won’t even recognize him. I hope desperately that am in Delhi and a tiny hand pulls my hand and says ‘Mujhe Pehchaana?’. I hope he is sleeping safe and on his way to become something big. I hope he gets a chance to study. He is ‘my eyes lowered in shame’. He is my cowardice. He is my emptiness and numbness. He is the reason for my ‘growing up’. He is the reason for my shut lips. He is the millionth chance that I threw away. He is the cross that I bear for the ‘normal life that I lead’.